Freddy's First Kill
by chocolate cake with sprinkles
Summary: title says it all.  the first person Freddy killed.  Poor Freddy was sick of the abuse.  he wasn't going to take it any longer.  his first kill at age 16. *based on remake*


Freddy's First Kill

Ever since I was conceived I've been unwanted. In fact, a few years after my birth my single parent (Mommy to me, Amanda Krueger to her friends and family) killed herself. Apparently, suicide is the only guilt-free way out of parenthood, even if your son is only three years old. I spent about a year in an orphanage and got adopted by an abusive drunk who believed he was the only one who knew the right way to live.

Every day he'd read to me out of his leather-bound Bible and if I did anything less than sit up straight, completely still and silent, he'd smack my knuckles with that leather-bound Bible. If I complained, he'd hit me upside the head. If I cried, he'd hit me in the face with it. And if I did anything that the Bible preaches against or anything he didn't like, no matter how small, he saw it fit to hit me with that Bible like you would hit a misbehaving dog with a rolled-up newspaper.

The anger and hatred grew to the point that I'd take it out on small animals. I'd set up traps and sentence the squirrels and rabbits to fates similar to the ones illustrated in _The Divine Comedy_. It went on for seven years. Then I realized, though I didn't believe in God, I wasn't Satan, and torturing innocent little animals wasn't going to help anything. So I decided to stop tormenting them. I destroyed all the traps, buried all the animal corpses, and tried to forget I had ever been such an evil little creature.

I still needed to get rid of the actual problem. That problem was major abuse from a drunk dad. Something in my head had a great idea: _kill the Jesus-freak hypocrite._

At first, this idea scared me a bit. I never wanted to be a murderer. It would only make me like whoever my real father was. And though my mother was long dead and gone, I knew she wouldn't want me to be like the sick-in-the-head abusive and/or homicidal loony that fathered me. The voice was very persuasive. Saying things like, _Who gives a damn 'bout what your mommy would've wanted? By now there's probably just a skeleton of her, if that much. This man acts like he controls you. Wouldn't your mommy hate that even more than a murderer for a son?_

And so, after twelve or so years of being smacked with a leather-bound Bible, I decided to follow through with this plan.

I went to the library a lot. I wanted to know everything that could kill a human being, how much it would hurt, how long it would take, and what it symbolized. I also consulted my conscience, or whatever that voice was, and we agreed stabbing Daddy to death was how we'd do it.

I saved up my money for about a month and bought a nice hunting knife. This man who raised me wasn't human in the least, so why use a human knife?

Eventually, I even asked my sweetheart if she would help me hide a body if I committed murder. She answered so sweetly, "Why not? I don't have a reason for not helping you hide from the law."

I planned it out and whenever I was feeling uncertain, I looked through books on serial killers. If a human can do all _that_, I can stab my adoptive father and watch him bleed to death, right?

It was a Saturday night, five o'clock PM. He would came home from the liquor store any time now. While he was gone, I turned all his crucifixes upside-down and put on the grayish brown fedora he lost. The fedora won't mean anything to him, but I wore it back when I played Satan and tormented those rabbits and squirrels. I also had his leather-bound Bible and my hunting knife.

I heard his footsteps at the door. I started to wonder if this was such a good idea after all, but then that voice spoke up.

_Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the Freddy who wanted to paint Springwood red with this guy's blood? MAN UP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!_

Then he opened the door and entered. He saw how I redecorated the place and began to shake with anger.

"Frederick Charles Krueger, what the hell did you do? The crosses... I knew it. This child I raised as my own has already been tempted by the Devil. Why, Lord, have you allowed him?"

His religious nonsense was starting to piss me off. "Yeah, I'm with Satan and Lucifer and the guys now. In fact, they're the ones who told me to destroy this idiotic handbook on how to live life." And then I started stabbing the leather-bound Bible. If it were alive, this would be overkill.

He charged at me and grabbed for the shredded Bible I held in my left hand. He fell for the trap.

_Now. Kill him now._

And I stabbed him in his shoulder, several places on his back, maybe his heart, and his collarbone.

He was bleeding and dying because of me. I read that murders kill for the thrill it gives them. This man hit me every day in my life since I was four and a half in this little house on Elm Street; seeing him bleed to death _was_ thrilling. But I was switching from thrilled to fearful in split-second intervals.

I ended up calling 911, saying I stabbed him to death out of self-defense. They sent an ambulance. Turns out he wasn't dead yet. The doctors were able to keep him alive long enough for his parents to say good-bye to him.

He already had some assault charges so they believed me when I said it was out of self-defense.

The voice still keeps me company, and it still has great ideas...


End file.
